A Relationship in Ten Words
by drjamband
Summary: Based on "Top Ten Relationship Words That Aren't Translatable Into English." Each chapter a new word. Rated T for themes. Reviews much appreciated!    Happy Valentine's Day!
1. Mamihlapinatapei

_**Mamihlapinatapei **_(Yagan, an indigenous language of the Tierra del Fuego)—The wordless yet meaningful looks shared by two people who desire to initiate something, but are both reluctant to start.

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><p>John licked his lips. Again. It was driving Sherlock mad. The saliva left behind made John's lips glisten in the dimly-lit room. John looked up and found Sherlock staring at him. "Sherlock?" he asked.<p>

Sherlock blinked. "Hmm?"

"You alright?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out heavily. "Yes." John eyed him suspiciously but went back to reading the newspaper. Sherlock finally grabbed his violin and started playing a sad melody, so sad it made John's heart constrict and ache. John watched his friend, violin perched gracefully under his chin, spindly fingers holding the bow as if it were a precious artifact.

Their eyes locked and the melody changed a bit. It was still sad, but not mourning. It was…it was longing, John decided. Reaching and searching for something. Sherlock played for a few more minutes, his eyes staying locked with John's. John continued to lick his lips. The way Sherlock's fingers moved over each string was giving provoking in John some very vivid imaginings. Sherlock's fingers touching his lips, his neck, dancing over his chest and past his waistband. John almost let out a whimper as his eyes pleaded with Sherlock's.

And Sherlock's eyes looked almost fearful. The emotion he felt was flowing from him to the violin, but some of it detoured through the look he was giving John. He wanted to cry out his intentions, say that he wanted John to touch him and that he wanted to touch John, but he was scared. He had no experience with these things, whereas John had a lifetime's worth. He wanted it so bad, and he could tell John did too.

Sherlock's fear took over and he stood up, faced the window, and played a different song.


	2. Yuanfen

_**Yuanfen **_(Chinese)—A relationship by fate or destiny

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><p>John would call it fate that he saw Mike Stamford that day. Sherlock wouldn't call it anything. But the chances of John running into an old friend who happened to know someone who needed a flat mate just like John did were quite slim, really.<p>

How far back does fate go? Was his meeting with Sherlock destined to happen when he saw Mike? Or when he was shot? How about when he joined the army or even when he was born? When his ancestors were born? When life on Earth began? John didn't know.

It wasn't that Sherlock didn't care. Of course he did. He just didn't put much stock into predestined occurrences. Things happened. If they didn't, people would all just be standing still. Or dead. But even death _happened_. He did, however, think it fortuitous that the very day that Sherlock remarked off-handedly that he could use a flat mate was the same day that John Watson came limping up with the same declaration. And Sherlock also thought it fortuitous that John agreed to live at Baker Street, and that he was just as fucking insane as Sherlock was when it came to solving crimes and chasing criminals, and that John actually _liked_ him.

So were "Holmes and Watson" written by fate long before either of them had begun to exist? Had an oracle predicted their relationship? Had a messenger prophesized about the most brilliant man in England and his partner the army doctor? Sherlock didn't think so. John didn't really know. But they both knew they had met for a reason, whatever that reason may be.

"John?" Sherlock asked as they lay on the couch.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm glad you found me."

John smiled. "Me too."


	3. Cafune

_**Cafuné**_ (Brazilian Portuguese)—The act of tenderly running your fingers through someone's hair

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><p>Sherlock and John stumbled back into Baker Street, panting and exhausted. They had just gone on a chase through northern London that ended with the criminal falling to his death between two buildings after a failed jump to the next rooftop and Sherlock remarking, "Well, that was tedious."<p>

John had slightly twisted his ankle after stepping in a pothole, and Sherlock had whacked his head on a fire escape. "Well if you weren't built like a bloody giraffe," John had remarked.

So they were currently sitting on their couch, John elevating his hurt ankle on the coffee table while Sherlock rested his head in John's lap. "You should really put some ice on that," he mumbled into John's thigh.

"Mmm," John acknowledged. "It's not so bad. I'm more worried about your head," he continued as he started to let Sherlock's hair curl around his fingers.

"It's not my fault I have a long neck."

"It's not a fault at all." Sherlock looked up at John. "Your neck is fucking _elegant_, Sherlock. Gorgeous." Sherlock ran his fingers over the spot that John and paid special attention to the night before as John started stroking his hand through Sherlock's hair.

"That feels nice."

John smiled. "How's your head?"

"A lot better with your hand on it," Sherlock replied.

"Really?"

"Yes. I should do an experiment. I wonder if it would feel the same if I didn't have a headache. Maybe you should use your right hand. Maybe—."

"Sherlock!"

"But if-."

"Sherlock!" John tried again.

"What, John?" he asked, irritated.

"If you want me to do this more often, just say so."

Sherlock just huffed. "It's not _that_ good." A few minutes later he was asleep.


	4. Retrouvailles

_**Retrouvailles **_(French)—The happiness of meeting again after a long time

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><p>It had been three years since Sherlock had died. John was walking down the street back from the surgery when he accidentally bumped into a shaggy-looking old man. "Watch it!" the man shouted at him.<p>

"I'm sorry," John apologized, gathering the man's books for him. The man just tipped his hat and walked away.

John had just settled down with a cup of tea when he heard a knock. Opening the door, he realized it was the homeless man. "Sorry to trouble ye, sir, but I was just wonderin' if I might have a cup of tea. Bit cold outside."

John sighed. "Sure. Why not?" He let the man in and went to fill the kettle again. When he came back into the living room, Sherlock Holmes stood before him, books and costume tossed on the floor behind him. John fainted.

He woke a few minutes later. "Sherlock?" he asked. "No. I…I'm dead. Thank God," he breathed.

"John," Sherlock whispered. He sounded broken.

"Don't be sad, Sherlock. I was so miserable. Now we can be happy. Though I didn't think Heaven would look like my flat."

"No one's dead, John." John's brow furrowed. "I…I'm so sorry. I didn't think it would affect you this much."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"When I jumped from St. Bart's…the body you saw on the ground wasn't mine."

"Yes it was. I saw you!" John interrupted.

"John, please." John closed his mouth. "I hired that bicyclist to run into you so you would be disoriented and wouldn't see. I had Molly arrange for a dummy to be put on the ground for everyone to see. I know you're wondering why I did it. Moriarty and I met on the roof. He said if I didn't complete the illusion that I was a fraud by killing myself, he would have his snipers kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I knew that as long as he had me, he didn't need you to die. But he killed himself. I had no choice. I hadn't originally planned for you to see, but you were there and I felt it was only fair for you to hear my goodbye. It was…awful, watching you. I wanted so badly to tell you what was happening, but I couldn't risk your safety."

"So what have you been doing for the past three years?"

"Chasing Moriarty's henchmen. Mycroft provided me with funds and arrangements as I tracked them through Europe."

"Are…are you…?" John struggled.

"Yes, John. I'm done. And I'm so, so sorry." To John's surprise, Sherlock leaned his head on John's shoulder and cried softly.

"Sherlock," John soothed. "Sherlock, no."

"I should have told you. I was just so scared for you. I…I thought that it'd be most convincing if you really thought I was dead. I thought you'd just," he hiccupped, "move on."

"Move on?" John asked incredulously, lifting Sherlock's head so that their eyes met. "How could I?" Sherlock shook his head. "I missed you so much. It hurt…so bad, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, resting his hand on John's upper arm.

"But you're back now." Sherlock nodded and John pulled him into a hug. "I couldn't be happier."

Sherlock smiled. "Me neither, John."


	5. Ilunga

_**Ilunga**_ (Bantu)—A person who is willing to forgive abuse the first time; tolerate the second time, but never a third time

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><p>John was a very patient man. He was in the army, after all. And he did live with Sherlock Holmes, the world's oldest child. So that was why when he walked in to find Sherlock injecting cocaine into his left arm, he only yelled internally. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"<p>

"Oh. Hello, John. Didn't expect you back so soon."

"Obviously." He motioned to the needle. "So?"

"Ah, that, yes. It's this case, John. I can't seem to figure it—oh! Oh of course! John, text Lestrade for me, would you? Tell him 'brown coat, Kensington Gardens.' Are you done?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, shut up!" He finished with the text and all but threw the phone at his friend. "How long had it been?"

Sherlock didn't pretend not to know. "Two years."

"Two years?" John threw his hands in the air in an exaggerated shrug. "Why now, then, huh? Why now?"

"I told you, John, the case!"

"Was it really that bad?"

"Lestrade gave it to me last month."

John's face softened. "Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock looked away. "Fine, come on. You're going to bed." The next morning Sherlock asked John if he was forgiven. "Yes, Sherlock, you're forgiven," he sighed.

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><p>Two weeks later, John was focusing all of his energy on not falling asleep at his laptop when he noticed Sherlock trying to keep his eyes open while he sat hunched on the couch. John blinked a few times and turned back to his laptop as Sherlock got up and went to the bathroom.<p>

He must have fallen asleep, because when he next looked at the clock it was three hours later. He could hear papers rustling and Sherlock's loud breathing. "Sherlock?" he croaked.

"Oh, good, you're awake. I need you to take a look at the stab wounds in this picture and tell me if you see any—what's wrong?"

John's jaw was clenched, his hands in fists by his sides. "You did it again."

"John."

"No. Sherlock, what is it going to take for you to stop? I understand you were tired, and that the case is important to you, but you can't destroy yourself for it!" He took a deep breath. "I can't do anything about it this time, but I will not tolerate this again, do you hear me, Sherlock?"

John looked so angry and disappointed that Sherlock acquiesced sadly. "Of course, John. I'm sorry," he said softly. The next day he texted Mycroft and had every trace of cocaine removed. John was more important.


	6. La Douleur Exquise

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><p><em><strong>La Douleur Exquise <strong>_(French)—The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can't have

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><p>"John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work."<p>

The air left John's lungs. "No, of course, I wasn't…." He trailed off. What was he thinking anyway? He had only just met Sherlock and already he was fantasizing about them being in a relationship? Together? John shook his head. He was such an idiot. He resolved to forget about Sherlock in that way. Disassociate. Sherlock said friend? He said colleague. That was the only way.

But nine months later and that plan had gone up in flames. He and Sherlock had become close—it was unavoidable. Sherlock was a tornado, spiraling faster and faster and picking up everything in his wake, discarding what he had no use for. And John was the eye of the storm, the calm in the center of chaos. They needed each other. The fact that they fit together like the last two pieces of a huge jigsaw puzzle did not help John in getting over Sherlock. In fact, it only convinced him that he needed Sherlock more. They were meant to be, John thought. No match could be as perfect. But John knew it wouldn't happen. His chest ached.

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><p>"This is my friend, John Watson."<p>

"Colleague."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Colleague? Where did that come from? Sherlock bit his lip. He wanted him and John to at least be friends. He didn't have friends. He thought it was better that way. But John was different. John was truly interested in his work and his sleeping patterns and his eating habits. John _cared_. So then why did he introduce himself as Sherlock's colleague?

Eventually they became friends, and it made Sherlock happy. They were close, so close people thought they were lovers. Sherlock never bothered to correct them. He liked it. John, though, apparently didn't. "I'm not gay!" he would remind everyone. Sherlock smirked. You didn't need to be gay to do it with a dude.

But as time wore on, John's declarations that he was, indeed, heterosexual became more and more adamant. And he started bringing home girls. Women. Idiots. Sherlock always remembered their names. Of course he did. But he wanted to make them feel insignificant so they would leave. And it had worked. He garnered more and more of John's attention, and while that should have made him happy, it wasn't the kind of attention he _really_ wanted from his friend. He wanted the kind of no distractions, undivided, hungry attention that lovers gave to each other. But John seemed intent on giving that to someone else. Sherlock sighed. His heart hurt.


	7. Koi No Yokan

_**Koi No Yokan**_ (Japanese)—The sense upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall in love

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><p><em>Oh<em>, John thought. _He's…um…oh_. He couldn't get his thoughts straight. Sherlock Holmes was _beautiful_. Pale-as-paper skin, tight black curls, and a figure like a telephone pole. A very _graceful_ telephone pole.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" That voice. Like dark chocolate. John cleared his throat. He knew he was in danger here. If he spent any more time with this man, he was sure to fall in love with him. John grimaced. He _really_ needed a place to live. He couldn't refuse Sherlock's offer. He was in the military, for God's sake! He could be disciplined.

But then Sherlock started telling him his own life story, unraveling him in the lab, and John had never felt more naked and thrilled. It was like verbal sex. It impressed him beyond belief, and he resigned himself to the fact that he was going to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes.

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><p>Sherlock paused, experiment underway, and looked at the man standing at the front of the room. Short, but that was OK. Definitely disciplined. Military. Afghanistan or Iraq, no doubt. <em>Interesting<em>, Sherlock thought.

He asked to borrow Mike's mobile, but John thrust his forward instead. Sherlock felt a leap in his stomach. _Interesting_, he thought again. He was excited at the prospect of sharing a flat with John, to see him every day, to hear that steady voice and meet those kind eyes. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" _Shit._ He'd ruined his chances already. _Well done, Sherlock_, he thought. John cleared his throat. It was possibly the sexiest thing Sherlock had ever heard. He couldn't stop now—the question was out there. So he spouted off his deductions, all the while internally cringing as he knew he was blowing his chance. But John had liked it. Well, at the least he hadn't been offended. Sherlock smiled. He was going to fall in love with John Watson.


	8. Ya'aburnee

_**Ya'aburnee**_ (Arabic)—"You bury me." A declaration of one's hope that they'll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them

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><p>Blue and red flashes. Sirens. That damn orange blanket again. Sherlock experienced it all through a haze as Lestrade all but pushed him into his car and drove towards St. Bart's. And to think an hour ago they were watching television and drinking tea.<p>

They were chasing a suspect. Lestrade was, as usual, behind. Sherlock had accidentally kicked a fire hydrant while running, so he limped quickly behind John in pursuit of the criminal. Sherlock forever cursed fire hydrants for what happened next.

John was ahead of him, but Sherlock saw it first: the glint of a pistol slipping out of the man's jacket pocket.

He had no time. It was usually that he could turn his back and hunch over his shorter friend. John's smaller stature wasn't just convenient for making Sherlock look taller; John was often spared the brunt of their attackers' abuse because Sherlock was able to shield him fully. But now John was in front, and Sherlock could do nothing to protect him.

He was hit just above the left knee and fell immediately. Sherlock bent down, avoiding the assailant's next bullet and pulling John's gun from his waistband. Before he could shoot, though, Lestrade and his team arrived, and Sherlock crouched by John, taking off his scarf and wrapping it around John's leg. "John. John, oh, I'm so sorry."

"For what?" John rasped.

"For not…" he swallowed, "not protecting you."

John raised an eyebrow. "I was in the army, Sherlock. I can look out for myself." He didn't mean for it to come out as harshly as it had.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Maybe he just attributed it to the way John's jaw was clenched in pain. "I don't want you to…to have to."

"Are you saying, ahhh, you want to, mmf, protect me?" John ground out.

But Sherlock didn't get a chance to answer, as John was put onto a gurney and pushed into the ambulance.

Sherlock wasn't allowed to ride with him. He wasn't family, and John wasn't awake to plead his case. Therefore, he arrived twenty minutes behind with Lestrade. Which so happened to be when John was flat-lining.

He had lost an enormous amount of blood, and Sherlock employed a strength he never knew he had to escape Lestrade's hold and chase the gurney down the hall to the operating room. He shouted John's name repeatedly in a chant that reverberated throughout the hospital.

He insisted on watching the surgery to make sure the idiot surgeons didn't mess anything up. Lestrade had tried to watch, but once the doctors had really gotten to work he left. Sherlock didn't notice.

He sensed a presence in John's post-op recovery room. "I'm supposed to die first," he said softly. Mycroft, in a display of affection that was rather alarming to Sherlock, simply kissed his brother's temple and left as quickly as he had entered.

An hour later, John woke. "Sherlock," he whispered. Sherlock clasped his hand, unable to speak. "It's okay," John assured him. "How's your foot?"

Sherlock laughed, but his euphoria was short-lived. "I'm sorry."

"Stop."

"I'm usually the one in front."

"Control freak," John muttered jokingly. Sherlock smiled. "Besides, it's not all bad."

Sherlock scowled. "How so?"

"Now my limp will be real." John was grinning broadly, and Sherlock laughed as tears made tracks on his face.


	9. Forelsket

_****_**sorry for the delay, everyone! i was at a retreat this weekend without my laptop. thank you so much to all who have reviewed/alerted/favorited/what have you! enjoy!**

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><p><em><strong>Forelsket<strong>_ (Norwegian)—The euphoria you experience when you're first falling in love

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><p>It wasn't exactly euphoria. For either of them. For John it was panic, just sheer and utter panic. John Watson was not one to lie, and falling in love with Sherlock Holmes was most definitely counter to his frequent declarations of, "I'm not gay!" Falling in love with Sherlock was scary. Was he gay? He didn't really find Queer as Folk entertaining, and that was pretty much the jumping off point to exploring your sexuality.<p>

When he experienced any sensory stimulation from Sherlock, whether it be smelling the scent of his shampoo, hearing him speak, or simply watching him, his heart raced. When he realized his heart was racing, it scared him, which caused his heart to race even more. He was surprised he hadn't had a heart attack already. Yet being around Sherlock did make him feel happy. Oh, God, how was he ever going to sort this out?

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><p>Sherlock was very confused. It didn't happen often, but John Watson seemed to be the exception to everything. He didn't have <em>feelings<em>, he didn't do _emotions_, so why did he recognize in himself the classic signs of attraction? He mulled and sulked for hours, plucking at the violin and curling up on the couch. But nothing seemed to do any good.

When confronted with happiness, Sherlock's first instinct was to question its legitimacy. Was he really happy? Why was he happy? Was it _OK_ to be happy? He knew it wasn't really _OK_ to be happy at a crime scene. He knew it wasn't really _OK_ to be happy when one of is insults put someone day. But he didn't know if it was really OK to be happy about being in love with John.

He decided he needed to experiment. The hypothesis was simple, and the test could be done quickly. He only needed to do it once. "John?" he asked. They were sitting at the table in the living room, John on his laptop and Sherlock scouring the newspaper for any fresh obituaries.

"Hmm?" John asked, focused on typing and trying not to sound like a complete idiot in order to avoid Sherlock's comments on his blog entry.

"I need to if something is, um, _not good_."

John turned his attention away from the computer. This was new. This was…good? John didn't know. "What is it?" he asked.

"Is it…OK…that I…?" Sherlock swallowed. He was being a coward. This didn't suit him, not at all!

"That you what, Sherlock?" John asked patiently.

"That I love you?" he finished quickly, eyes shut tight, newspaper crinkling noisily in the otherwise silent room from where he was gripping it. John hadn't said anything yet, so Sherlock cautiously reopened his eyes.

John met them and smiled. "Of course, Sherlock." And Sherlock knew John loved him too.


	10. Saudade

_****_**thank you all again! this is the last word. it's been great writing this. so with that: enjoy!**

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><p><em><strong>Saudade <strong>_(Portuguese)—the feeling of longing for someone that you love and is lost

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><p>"Sherlock, you can't just say that!"<p>

"Ugh! You people and your _sympathy_. I don't understand it."

"You told the man he was going to die soon!"

"He is! He's 87 and still smokes!"

"And that doesn't send a message to you?"

"One lecture at a time, John."

John threw his hands in the air angrily. "I'm going out."

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><p>Sherlock knew not to stop him, but he hated those words. He hated them more than "baby brother" and "freak" and "piss off" and "no case" all put together. "I'm going out" meant John was leaving. "I'm going out meant Sherlock was alone. He used to thrive on being alone. <em>"Alone is what protects us,"<em> he'd told John. But John protected him. As much as it pained him to admit he could have been wrong, he could have died the night the cabbie gave him the pill if John hadn't shot the man.

And now he longed for John. No methodical sound of the keyboard clacking (John really had become a much better typist), no kettle boiling (no, he couldn't make tea for himself), no sound of the TV as John scrolled Sky One. Sherlock's longing for John was so strong that he fell asleep just to escape the aching in his chest.

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><p>He woke up to the sound of the door opening. The flat was dark, and he was disoriented. This was why he hated sleeping. He heard the swish of John's coat as he hung it on the peg, John's heavy, soldier footsteps as he made his way to the kitchen, the flick of a switch as he turned on the kettle, and the opening and closing of drawers and cabinets as he prepared to make tea. Sherlock sat up slowly. John walked over with his tea and sat in his armchair, completely aware despite the dark that Sherlock was awake and sitting on the couch.<p>

"John," Sherlock started.

"I know, Sherlock," John replied, cutting him off.

"No." He paused. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are."

"You must know, John….When you're gone…I miss you."

John turned towards him, though he couldn't clearly see Sherlock's face. "When I'm gone?"

"Yes. When you go out. For walks, or to the pub, or whatever you do."

"I'm never gone long."

"Doesn't mean I don't miss you." John had no response. "I'm sorry, John."

"It's OK, Sherlock. Can you do me a favor though?"

"Mmm."

"Can you turn on the light?"

"What for? I like it in the dark."

"I…never mind."

"You can't do that, John. You know you can't."

John could feel his face heat up from his blush and his cheeks stretch from his smile. "I want you to turn on the light so I don't miss," he swallowed, "when I kiss you." Suddenly he felt breath on his face and Sherlock's hands on his cheeks.

"Don't worry, John. I know you'll always come back to me." John smiled and kissed him.


End file.
